


A Series of Pas de Deux

by Haldane



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:05:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/pseuds/Haldane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has secrets - as these secrets are exposed, a series of sexual encounters occurs, affected by the laws and mores of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lestrade.

**Chapter 1: Lestrade**

I arrived in Baker Street that evening in response to a note from Holmes. We worked together fairly often, and he had a strange status in relation to the police force; he did not consider himself bound by the rules that we followed, but since he laid his talents on the side of justice, we considered him almost one of us. There were times that we provided him with information that we would not have given to any other member of the general public; in exchange, he acted as our last resort for the worst of our problems.

What I kept hidden under a mask of dull inscrutability was his status in relation to me. My public life was of necessity above any reproach, but in my private centre it was men I was drawn to, not women. In reality, this meant that I had no lovers at all, for in my position there were none I could trust with such a secret. Perhaps if I had, I would have been safe, but as it was I had been completely infatuated with Holmes from the first I saw him.

And never was there a more hopeless passion. Holmes's general dislike of women was enough that in another I would have considered him to be the same as I, but he disdained all passions equally and no sign of a liking for men could I detect. 

So I worked with him, in order to have some form of association. I put up with his gibes and even insults, comforted at least that he treated everybody else the same, and I was closer to him than most, with one notable exception.

Dr. John Watson.

The only thing that kept me sane was that Holmes often treated Watson as badly as he did myself, and never showed any sign that their partnership went beyond the socially acceptable lines. But I wondered.

Mrs. Hudson showed me into the sitting room, informing me that Mr. Holmes was out, but had said he was expecting me. I glanced around the room, cluttered with the usual odd collection of objects, until I saw the discarded dressing gown. It was ordinary enough, worn velvet, left on the back of the settee, but it was his. I shuddered all over, as lust surged inside my veins and took control of my actions. I looked and listened carefully for a moment, and convinced I was alone I picked it up, bringing the fabric up to my face and inhaling. His scent was on it, stronger than I had ever perceived it before, and my physical arousal was so swift as to be almost painful.

"Is that a usual procedure for Scotland Yard?" 

My heart leapt in my chest as I whirled around, but the voice came not from the stairs, but from one of the internal doors; and it was not Holmes, it was Watson. He glared, and for the first time I could believe that this amiable, pleasant man had been an officer in the British Army, had gone into battle under live fire and been wounded for his country. 

Without breaking eye contact, Watson stalked across the room and snatched the robe away, folding it carefully and brushing the nap, as if to remove any traces I might have left on it. His touch was obsessively careful, and I was suddenly certain that all my suspicions were true. "You -"

Anything else that might have been said was lost as Holmes bounded energetically through the door. "Ah, Lestrade, good, you're here. I hope you're ready to leave immediately. Watson." and he nodded to his friend, an acknowledgement of his presence but not an invitation to join us. 

I know I shouldn't have done it, but the heat in my body made me careless. I threw a triumphant look at Watson behind Holmes's back, and moved to follow him through the door. As he exited, I managed to 'accidentally' bump into him, looking back under the excuse of saying goodnight, and I saw Watson's face as my body pressed into Holmes's.

I do not know how long they had been keeping their secret, but I had it now. And I was going to use it.


	2. Watson.

**Chapter 2: Watson**

Holmes was never in a better mood than when commencing on a case that promised to be of some interest. The finish of a case brought him a certain satisfaction, but it was often remarkably short-lived. I think it was the pursuit that appealed to him most, and he was certainly in high spirits that Friday morning.

"How would you like to join me in the country for a few days? Two nights at least, perhaps three... Lestrade is coming over with some details in an hour, and I know full well you can be ready in less than that time."

"Indeed, I am pleased to receive as much notice as an hour. You have dragged me out with much less." And we shared a laugh as we finished our breakfast.

I felt my own spirits rising in answer to his evident enthusiasm. I was always careful not to automatically include myself when he announced he was going somewhere, but when he did invite me it was always gratifying. On some few occasions I had even been of undeniable use. But whether I was useful or not, I jealously treasured the privilege of accompanying him.

In truth, I would have done a great deal more than accompany him, had he ever wished it. But for every look he gave me that indicated some warmth of feeling on his part, there was a flat statement of contempt for emotions and the stupidity of the actions they provoked. So I held my feelings - and actions! - under tight control in his presence, and never betrayed that I felt anything more for him than a solid friendship.

Which may have been what exposed me to Lestrade. I was well used to the idea of concealing myself from Holmes, and society in general, but Lestrade had caught me off balance when I thought myself alone. To see him fondling Holmes's dressing gown had enraged me, and perhaps Holmes was right after all; emotions only create stupid actions.

To be fair, I have not done Lestrade justice in my accounts, playing down what abilities he had, or painting him at his worst, in order to cast a superior light onto Holmes. If he had truly been only as I showed him, they would never have worked together as often or for as long as they did. Unfortunately he was perceptive enough the day he caught me.

I knew that the connection to Scotland Yard was essential for Holmes's work, both as a source of information when he was working independently and as a source of cases. So I had kept silent about the encounter between Lestrade and myself, and I could only assume he had done the same.

At that moment the Inspector himself was announced, as punctual as ever. He had a folder of papers that he passed to Holmes, as we exchanged cool pleasantries. It is difficult, sometimes, living with the world's greatest proponent of observation, but if he were going to miss anything, it would be a clash of emotions between his two closest associates. Or perhaps he did see it, but didn't care.

We rose from the table, and Lestrade called down to a couple of his men to come and get our bags. In the ensuing confusion, with the three of us going down the stairs as two more men were coming up, one of them managed to stick his leg directly between both of mine.

I am not a particularly clumsy man, but caught by surprise on the narrow stairs, I tripped and went down awkwardly, tumbling the entire distance to the entrance hall floor. I knew there was damage done before I landed. The pain in my ankle gave me a sick feeling inside, the one you get when you know you have been injured but not yet how badly.

"No harm done, I hope?" That was Holmes, at my elbow to help me up. But I could not even stand unaided, clutching my ankle and sinking back to the floor.

"Sorry, Holmes. I've wrenched it, and badly too. Could even be sprained, the way it feels." I took a deep breath, facing my disappointment. "I don't think I'm going to be going anywhere with you today."

"Seriously? That does put a jam into things. I did promise I would be down there today, but I don't want to leave you here injured." Holmes scowled with indecision, concern for me warring with his need to be on his way.

"If I can help?" put in Lestrade. "I can leave an officer here to assist Dr. Watson. I cannot get out of London today, but perhaps tomorrow evening or the day after I could come down; if you could use my assistance." 

"That would ease my mind considerably." Holmes said. "Watson? Would that be all right with you?"

What could I do but agree? Holmes had made his promise to go, and I was in no condition to do anything but hobble back up the stairs. It was Lestrade's case; he had an interest in seeing it completed as efficiently as possible. Any darker thoughts must be pure paranoia on my part.


	3. Lestrade.

**Chapter 3: Lestrade**

The small room was still almost as warm as it had been all night. The window was wide open, but no breeze stirred the drapes that hung pulled back on either side. I had not slept at all, spending the night weighing up the risks of approaching Holmes against the knowledge that this chance was not likely to come again. 

It was a long series of coincidences and grasped opportunities that gave me this chance. I had remained two days in London after Holmes had left, afraid that walking out of my office at a drop of a hat might attract notice. Then I had arrived to find his work almost complete. I caused totally unnecessary delays over paperwork and details, so that the last train had gone before we were done. Fate decreed that the town's only halfway decent inn was crowded; on being told that I would have to share Holmes's room, I 'forgot' to inform him until it was too late to make any other arrangements.

There was enough light now to see him clearly. Holmes lay sprawled in the bed by the window, sheets kicked sideways but modesty preserved by his nightshirt. Preserved only in the technical sense, it was easy enough to see that he was going to wake with an erection, like so many men in the mornings. That sight took the last of my self-control from me; I slipped from my bed and knelt on the floor by his.

I drew his nightshirt up as delicately as I could. I was able to expose him completely; even knowing as I did it that it was wrong to proceed without his consent. But my desperate self protested that waking him to ask his consent would only lead to my losing this one chance to touch him at all. Surely if I stopped as soon as he asked me to that would be enough, I reasoned, ignoring the glaring fact that a sleeping man is in no position to protect his boundaries.

It was as if I was watching myself from some other part of the room, with no control over my actions. I bent low over him and inhaled, filling myself with the unique scent of warm skin and the night's sweat, so strongly male that I felt dizzy. I exhaled through my mouth, soft and slow so as not to wake him, and he shifted slightly and sighed as the warmth flowed over his skin. 

I had had a lover once, who had delighted in being roused from sleep slowly, so slowly. Strange, I had not thought of him for years. I kept my breaths the barest movement of air, caressing Holmes without touching him, and in his sleep he responded to me, his member swelling in front of my eyes. I stopped to grasp the moment forever in my mind; for I knew I had pleasured him, even if he was unaware of it.

It was just as well that I did. For my tongue reached out to taste him, drawing a line from base to tip, and even as I finished his body went rigid and a hand seized the hair on the back of my head. _"Too much, too fast"_ screamed inside my head even as an icy voice snapped out: "What the _hell_ do you think you are doing?"

"I happened to notice your condition. And with your usual partner missing, I thought you might appreciate some easing of it." I still had a chance, depending on his reaction.

I was not expecting his honest bafflement at my words. "My _partner?_ Do you mean... Watson? He is my partner, yes, but not in this sense of it!"

"I admit the two of you hide it well. But he hides it just a little less well than you do. I was in your rooms some time back, waiting for you, and I caught him rather off guard, I suspect." I was actually proud of it, deducing something they had gone to some effort to hide.

"No. You have made a mistake. Dr. John Watson shares my rooms, keeps my notes, accompanies me when I ask it and does more services for me than even he knows, but he does not..." and here Holmes had to stop while he cast about vainly for a socially acceptable word, finally settling on: "He does not _lick_ me!"

"I know what I saw, Holmes. I may not have your talent for spotting a single hair at a crime scene, but I can read a man's emotions when they're written ten feet high across his face!" 

Holmes shook his head. "Watson's emotions may be one thing. His actions are another. Whatever you saw, I tell you again, Lestrade, you are mistaken. There is no relationship of that sort between us." His voice lowered and he twisted my head around so we were staring face to face. "And you are not welcome here."

The expression on his face was awful to see. All my emotions curled up and died within me at that point. He stared at me long enough to be sure I had his meaning, then thrust me away across the floor. He spread out the tangled sheets and blankets, so that they shrouded his form completely. The only thing I had left to salvage was the last shred of my dignity. 

"I apologise to you, most sincerely. And I assure you that there will never be any repetition of my appalling behaviour." I said, stiffly. "There is a train to London in thirty minutes. I shall catch that one, so that you may take another." 

I had brought very little with me. It took only minutes for me to dress and pack my bag. Holmes lay with his face turned to the wall, sheets pulled high around his neck, unmoving. He made no acknowledgement as I left, and I expected none.


	4. Watson.

**Chapter 4: Watson**

I was surprised, and not agreeably, when Lestrade was announced during my solo breakfast. I knew he had gone down to meet Holmes the night before, and could not understand why he was back in Baker Street and Holmes was not. 

It is strange how civilized men act in the most extreme situations. His face showed clear evidence of some inner agitation, yet I ordered more tea from Mrs. Hudson, and we exchanged polite greetings as we waited for it. He inquired about my ankle, and I assured him that I was much recovered, although not up to extended walking. I assumed he would not speak of his real purpose until Mrs. Hudson had been and gone. 

"Watson." Lestrade started, once we had privacy. "Watson, I have come here this morning... I have to talk to somebody! And you are absolutely the only person I can talk to. I'm completely destroyed..."

He was so upset that I could hardly make sense of his words. "Calm down, man! Tell me what's happened. Is it something to do with Holmes? Why isn't he with you?"

"Holmes!" He laughed, hysterically. "Yes, it's to do with Holmes. I wanted him, from the first moment I ever saw him. I thought it would never happen, but after I saw your face, that day... I jumped too far, hoping that if he was actively involved with another man, then there was a chance for me." He was getting louder, louder and less controlled, almost incoherent. "This morning it came, and I took it, and his face - In God's name, I've never seen anything so terrifying. I'll see it forever, unless I shoot myself first, and when this gets out-"

He was breaking down completely. I slapped him sharply, and his voice cut off. He sat back in his chair, breathing in gasps, but after a few minutes gathered up what was left of his self-control. 

My own feelings were so mixed I would not have been able to say what I felt most. There was certainly envy, in that he had touched Holmes intimately at all, and also a black glee, in that he had been refused. I also felt pity for his current state, and even some responsibility. If I had kept my facade better all three of us would not be in this situation now. 

All three of us - for in giving himself away, Lestrade had exposed me as well. But I put the thought of dealing with Holmes aside for later, since he was not here and Lestrade was. He had just threatened suicide, and men have done it before with far less reason. 

"Why should it get out? I doubt Holmes is any more anxious to publicise this than you are. Your best course is to wait, and if you encounter him again, pretend it never happened. If I am correct, he will do the same and you both stand where you did before. And never bring it up again, not even to apologise. If a situation is emotional and messy, he'd prefer your complete silence to any apology you could make."

"That... that sounds like good advice. But I have been such a stupid fool in this, I am not sure I can face him at all, let alone trying to pretend nothing has happened."

My bitterness welled up in me, and the truth spilled out. "Take some comfort in this - you may be a fool, but I am a coward. At least you had the courage to let him know how you felt. And you have touched him, as I have never done. Besides, you do not live as a secondary lodger in his rooms. I have to wonder now if he will come home only to throw me out."

"God's name! I am sorry, I was thinking too much of myself to realise what I have done to you. I... I do seriously apologise, for all the good it does." Now it was Lestrade's turn to comfort me. Maybe we always see another person's problems in clearer proportion than our own. "But... Turn you out? Never. He values you, more highly than anyone else. And you have done nothing against him. He will not throw you out for feelings you have kept decently under control."

"Well, I will hope that you are right." Then another idea occurred to me, and I posed my question, since Lestrade was currently in a vulnerable mood. "So... Did you encourage that constable to send me down the stairs, in order to take my place?"

"What? I - damn it, no! I will admit I saw the chance for me and took it, but no." He shook his head vehemently. "I did not arrange that. But I can see that I have given you reason to believe me capable of it." 

Lestrade fell into a brooding silence. I decided that despite the hour we both needed some external support, and poured out two large brandies. Lestrade accepted his glass with a nod and a wry smile. 

I sat down and rolled the glass in my hands and sighed. "I suppose I should be grateful to you. I have considered approaching him more times than I can recall, and now at least I am properly warned against trying it." Lestrade just snorted and shook his head, and we sat in what was almost a comradely mood for a while. Right now we had much in common and little left to hide between us.


	5. Holmes.

**Chapter 5: Holmes**

When I heard the sitting room door open and shut, I sat back on my heels on the floor of Watson's room. Years ago, I had created a "listening hole" under one of the floorboards in the corner that lay above the sitting room, in order to eavesdrop on conversations being held below. 

I had heard almost the entire conversation, having followed Lestrade onto the train without his knowledge. I was not sure at the time why I was doing it, but when I heard him give the cabby directions to Baker Street I was glad I had. I had entered the house only minutes behind, moving silent and unseen up to Watson's room. Nothing they had said had been a complete surprise, although I noted that what he had said about Watson's feelings was indeed true. I hoped that Lestrade would take Watson's advice, since it agreed with my own wishes in the situation.

Thankfully, the interview was over and soon I would be able to descend and pretend to have just arrived. Then I realised with alarm that there were two sets of feet ascending the stairs. Instead of Lestrade leaving, they were both coming to the room where I stood. 

Watson has few possessions and modest tastes, and as a result there were very few places to hide inside his room. The only possibility I could see was to step onto the windowsill and drag one of the curtains across in front of me. Fortunately, the sun was still on the other side of the house and so I should not show up against the window itself, and with any luck Watson would not notice the previously open curtains were now partly closed.

I flattened myself against the side of the window frame as much as possible as the door opened and settled into the frozen state of mind and body that has been such an asset to me. 

"There." It was Watson's voice. "Modest, but my own. And private enough, up here. I'm glad I don't face onto the street, and with the curtains closed there's no chance of anyone seeing in." I actually saw his hand take the edge of the curtain I was behind and draw it the rest of the way to the centre. 

"Is it suitable? You can still change your mind, and you know you can trust my discretion either way." Still Watson speaking, and I began to have the most awful suspicion of what he was talking about. 

"It's because I know I can trust you. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a safe partner when you're a senior police inspector?"

"About as difficult as it is for a respected member of the medical profession?" Watson answered him, and both men shared a laugh, if one tinged with bitterness. "Here, let me help you with those..." His voice trailed off to a murmur I couldn't hear.

It was then that I noticed the rip in the curtain. Just below and in front of my shoulder was a distinct tear, leaving a gap large enough for one eye to look through. I was shocked at my own thoughts; it was bad enough that I was listening without my watching them as well. 

Watson has written that my besetting sin is vanity; but he never asked me my own opinion. I would have told him that it is curiosity. I could distinguish between forty-two different bicycle tyres, and over a hundred kinds of tobacco ash; but of the intimate dealings between men of my own class I had no experience or information whatsoever.

So when I heard Lestrade let out a low sobbing groan I shifted my position slowly until my eye lined up with the tear.

Both of them were naked to the waist, embracing tightly, arms caressing bare backs and shoulders. Watson was using his mouth along the line of Lestrade's collarbone, and his attentions caused another moan. Lestrade was gasping audibly, his mouth agape, and his head hanging back. I do not think I have ever seen such a lack of poise in him, in all the many situations we have been in together. 

Suddenly Watson spun Lestrade around, pulling him back to lean against his chest while he in turn leant against the wall. Watson's left arm encircled Lestrade's middle, holding him up, while his right hand began to unfasten his belt. Both men were facing the window, so shortly Lestrade was completely exposed to my sight. 

I could see that Watson was whispering, in between kisses and small nips on Lestrade's extended neck. I felt strangely jealous, wondering what he was saying that I would never hear. And what he was doing that I would never feel... his right hand was firmly around Lestrade's erect member, stroking and squeezing, while every now and again his fingers dropped lower to caress all of that most sensitive part of the body. 

And my own body began to turn traitor at that point, responding to what I was seeing even though it was all for another. I found I was imagining that Watson's hands were on my shaft, that his broad chest was warm against my back. I had to concentrate desperately to remain silent while I swelled and stiffened in my trousers, but I could not stop watching. 

Watson was caressing and squeezing and licking and whispering, while Lestrade groaned and twisted, his entire body responding, until he finally shuddered all over and he climaxed. I inferred rather than saw this, since Watson had somehow produced a handkerchief at the last moment, I assume to prevent any evidence of their activity staining the floor or their clothes. Lestrade relaxed slowly while Watson continued to support him, and I hoped that I would soon be out of my predicament.

But Lestrade had other ideas. He whispered something in Watson's ear, who just shook his head and laughed. "I've done enough work already, for one morning."

"So lie back and let me do it," Lestrade replied, hands at Watson's belt, meeting only half-hearted resistance. "It may have been a long time but you must still keep _something_ handy in your room?"

Lestrade removed the last of Watson's clothes and pushed him back towards the bed, hands moving over much more skin than was necessary. Watson let himself be laid down, and said something odd. "My medical bag. The white glass jar with the grey lid."

I did not realise what they were talking about until Lestrade sat next to Watson with the jar, and, dipping his fingers into it, began stroking his erection, clasping it in his hand and rubbing up and down. Watson sighed blissfully at this, letting his head roll back and murmuring something, of which I only caught the word "good".

I shut my eyes when Lestrade moved to sit across Watson's hips. It was bad enough that I had spied on them so far, without invading their privacy any longer. But curiosity and arousal tempted me beyond restraint, and I could not keep my eyes closed.

I could only see Lestrade's back and their legs. However, as they settled into a rhythm, I had an appallingly clear view of a generous amount of Watson's length, thick and hard and glistening, appearing and disappearing as Lestrade moved. Watson's hands reached to hold Lestrade's hips and pull their bodies closer together, Watson flexing his buttocks to push up as Lestrade lowered, causing both of them to groan, tones deep and guttural. 

They moved slowly at first, but gradually their actions became faster and harder. Lestrade's mouth was open, his breath coming in great gasps, in time with their bodies. As they sped up even more, Lestrade half-collapsed forward, bracing his arms on Watson's shoulders to support his weight. Watson was thrusting upwards so hard that his hips were arched off the bed, slamming into Lestrade over and over, faster than I would have thought possible. His heavy sac, as full and generous as the rest of him, swung freely between his legs and I had to clench my hands into fists to keep them from reaching for it.

A last convulsive movement, a strangled shout - I could not tell whose - and it was over. 

After a long pause, broken only by their breathing, I heard Watson's laugh, warm and genuine. 

"Lestrade, you surprise me. I was not expecting an encore from you."

"In truth, I've surprised myself. I thought I was past that sort of thing, but I was hardly going to pass up the opportunity." 

"Always glad to be of service to a member of Her Majesty's law enforcement," Watson replied solemnly, and they both laughed this time. With a few groans and creaks they got up and began to dress, and I could hope that this time they would both leave. 

"I'll remember what you said. When I see him again, if I do, I'll act as if it never happened." Lestrade's voice, from near the door. "And, John Watson, thank you."


	6. Watson.

**Chapter 6: Watson**

As soon as the door closed, I let my front crumble and sat heavily on the bed, my face in my hands. I didn't regret the impulse that had made me invite Lestrade to my room; I had enjoyed it on a purely physical level and it had given me an opportunity to prevent my brain from working for a while. But now I had to face reality again. My secret had been exposed to Holmes, and if his reaction to Lestrade was anything to go by, he was hardly going to welcome having another such man inside his home. 

Well, I could not spend the day sitting on the bed hoping that the facts were different from what they were. I rose and finished setting my clothes to rights, intending to return to the sitting room. But when I crossed to open the curtains, I got the most terrible shock when Holmes himself stepped out from between them.

"I thought it was more dignified if I came forward on my own, rather than waiting for you to discover me-", he started, taking advantage of my stunned silence to get the first words in.

"But, but, what are you do-" and the full implications crashed over me. "You saw everything, didn't you! Standing there, watching..." My emotions tangled in my throat and blocked my speech completely.

"Watson, truly, I never meant to watch you. I came up here to listen, only to listen. I could hardly have predicted that you were going to invite Lestrade into your bed!"

"But why were you spying on me at all? Is this the first time, or have I never had any privacy from you?"

"I was not spying on you! It was _Lestrade_ I was following. He was in a precarious mental state when he left the inn this morning, so I followed him onto the train. When I discovered he was coming here," and he paused to frame the rest of his sentence, "I was afraid he might offer you some insult or injury."

"You still have not explained what you are doing in my bedroom!"

"There is a loose board, over there, in the corner. If you lift it, you can hear most of what passes in the sitting room below. I built it, during one of your absences."

"Well? Did you like what you heard?" Yes, I was angry. Yes, I was being deliberately provoking. But I also felt fear, and humiliation, and most of all a ghastly sinking uncertainty. 

"No! Do you think I appreciate the idea of you two chasing after me like a bitch in heat? I thought you obliged me in all my demands out of friendship, not lust." His tone was bitter, and instinctively I reached out with one hand. Holmes recoiled violently. "Don't touch me!"

It was like having a bucket of cold water dashed into my face. "I have never touched you out of desire," I said quietly. "And all my assistance has been in the name of our friendship, not in the hope of gaining something you never wanted to give." 

Holmes had gotten past me somehow, and had his hand on the doorknob. But there was one more urgent point I had to settle, before he fled from me and left it unresolved. "Holmes, I know this is a great deal to ask, but I would have one concession from you. Would you just let me-"

"No! Absolutely not! Did you think I would permit that?" He was insulted and scandalized, and I could not blame him. He yanked the door open and clattered down the stairs, and a moment later I heard the outside door slam.

"No, I didn't. Few men would be that tolerant, in your situation," I said to the empty air. I do not think I myself would be comfortable living with someone who had confessed feeling desire for me, and an unwelcome, perverted desire at that. So now I was to leave Baker Street, having had no other home for more years than I had realised, until it was taken from me.


	7. Holmes.

**Chapter 7: Holmes**

It took me almost three hours of solid walking before I calmed down enough to come home again. My mind had been unconscionably slow to clear, but I had come to realise that if Watson had been a reliable friend at my side all these years, there was no reason for things to be any different between us. After all, he was the same man he had been yesterday; it was simply that I had a new piece of information about him that I did not have before. If I could trust him then, I could trust him now.

Having behaved with complete propriety towards myself, there was no reason to assume that he was suddenly going to change into a rampaging fiend. And as for any personal matters between him and Lestrade, that was none of my business. Given that they had both managed to conceal their inclinations from me, there were no grounds for concern that they would allow themselves to be discovered by society at large.

I noted that Watson's hat and coat were missing from the rack in the hall, and wondered, with a certain amount of guilt, if he was out walking the streets as I had been. I called down for tea, but was forestalled by Mrs. Hudson, already halfway up the stairs with the tray. I noted the tension in her back as I held the door open, and wondered how much she knew of the day's events.

"There," she said, banging the tray down on the table. "Tea, for one. As it will be from now on, I assume."

"I beg your pardon?" Surely Watson was not going to start taking tea in his room or some such nonsense?

"Well, since Dr. Watson has given his notice and packed up his things, I would think setting a place for him is unnecessary." 

I felt as if someone had pulled the earth out from under my feet. Yes, we had certainly done serious damage to our friendship that morning, but I had not thought the situation was irreparable. I could not believe that Watson, my solid, reasonable Watson, had simply left without attempting to settle things between us. I had come to depend on his accommodating himself around my vagaries, and when for once he had taken the reckless course, I was lost.

"What? Did he say why he was going?"

Mrs. Hudson looked at me with complete disbelief. "Since you threw him out, what did you expect? He's not the sort to hang about where he isn't wanted. So he's gone. And that's that." She slammed the teapot down on the tray.

"Where has he - no, wait. Mrs. Hudson, tell me exactly what he said to you." 

"Very well, sir." She folded her hands in her skirt and squared her shoulders. "Dr. Watson came down this morning and said that the two of you had had a falling out over a personal issue of a most serious nature. Since he considers you the senior lessee, he asked if you would allow him to stay on in his room, either until the two of you resolved it or he found somewhere else, but you refused him." Her tone had started out cold enough; now it was positively glacial. "So he has gone, with a carpetbag and suitcase, and packed up two trunks to be sent for. Insisted on paying his share of the rent until the end of the month in lieu of notice, although the only reason I accepted it is that he seemed upset enough already." Her face and voice left little doubt about whom she blamed for Watson's distress.

I ran back over our last conversation in my mind, and only realised now the mistake I had made. In the sexuality of the setting, with the smell of it filling my head and the disturbing feel of my own arousal, I had thought his "concession" to be a request for some specific physical liberty. I cursed my stupidity. How could I have assumed that Watson, a gentleman to his very bones, would have asked for such a thing directly after I told him not to touch me?

"I'm an idiot..." I whispered to myself.

"Yes, sir." 

"Mrs. Hudson. Where is it that Dr. Watson has gone?"

"It's strange you should ask that, sir. I seem to have absolutely no recollection of which way he went." 

She had already turned her back on me, but I vaulted over the settee and planted myself across the doorway. I am glad that I could not see the image we presented; I was attempting to physically intimidate a woman a foot shorter and twenty years older than I was. It was unfair of me, but I was not going to waste any advantage I had. 

"You said he left two trunks to be collected, and besides, his mail will be coming here. So there must be some forwarding address, or he intends to send you one. I want it."

"That does not mean I am going to give it to you." She was angry, and, God help me, I had the sort of landlady whose anger expressed itself in granite determination instead of tears or vapours. 

"I will trade it for the truth. There has been a personal _misunderstanding_ of the most serious nature, but _I cannot apologize if I cannot find him!_ " I shouted the last phrase, and she half-raised the tray between us, as if to protect herself. That shamed me, and I forced myself to at least external normality, dropping my hands and my voice. "I apologise for my rudeness, Mrs. Hudson. You are of course free to tell me or not what you will." 

Then it dawned on me that I had the lever I needed. "You know I am much worse in my behaviour without Dr. Watson's company. It seems the effects set in sooner than I had thought." I moved aside from the door, and held it for her to pass through. She looked at me with intense suspicion, and then visibly relented. 

"When he provides me with an address, I will let you know. I do not know what has passed between you, so I will not give you his location, but I will forward any letter you wish to send."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."


	8. Watson.

**Chapter 8: Watson**

I spent my first night out of Baker Street at a small hotel that I have no clear memory of. I lay flat upon the bed, spiritually too depressed to move, despite knowing that there was a list of things I should be doing. I had to find a more permanent place to stay, arrange for the rest of my belongings, and set up some form of income.

I had become used to not having an established practice. I saw those clients who had come to depend upon me personally, while spending much of my time on Holmes's cases. His cases had gradually come to represent both of my main sources of income, as his fees paid most of our combined expenses of living - he had the most generous definition of what constituted a case expense - supplemented by my writing. 

I was now cut off from both these sources. Probably my best bet was to register with an agency and hope for locum work or other temporary positions. I also considered whether the Army might take me back, even if I could not be rotated to an active duty posting.

But none of these musings amounted to anything worthwhile, as every train of thought was interrupted by the memory of Holmes flinching away from me. The bitterest part of all was that I had truly not intended that touch in any way but the most legitimate sense: I had been damned without even committing the sin I was accused of.

Only when the sky outside the window began to lighten did I realise I must have fallen asleep, in my clothes, on top of the bed. I rose and began the distasteful task of getting ready for the day without having had the peace of a proper sleep. 

The only thing I had managed to achieve was to decide my first task would be to register at Whistby & Whistby's, the best known of the medical agencies in this part of London. I needed a place to stay, and for that I needed an estimate of my income, and for that I needed work. Besides, it would enable me to provide Mrs. Hudson with a contact address for my mail.

Of course I knew that sending a contact address would also enable Holmes to find me. But he was hardly going to hunt me down to tell me to leave, so his only reason would be to ask me to come back. I am honest enough to admit I hoped he would, even as I hated myself for hoping it. Besides, if he wanted to find me badly enough he would, with time, whether I provided my address or not.

The interview and registration took longer than I had expected, and in my newfound depression I decided that I had been productive enough for one day. I paused only to pen a note to Mrs. Hudson and send it off, before returning without enthusiasm to my hotel.

Holmes's letter arrived within an hour of my return.

I turned it over in my hands without opening it. I had not given a direct address to Mrs. Hudson, but only the address of the agency. For a letter to come already, Holmes must have already written and sealed it, and been all but standing by the front door waiting for news of me. Under the circumstances this had to be a good sign, but I was still afraid to open it, in case I found out that our friendship was over forever.

I told myself sternly that holding the letter was not going to change its contents. I tore open the envelope, and a single sheet fell out.

_My dearest Watson,_

_I am sorry for the harsh exchange of words yesterday. But a friendship can survive a quarrel, and I would say with confidence that ours is strong enough to do so, had I not dealt it a second blow. In my distraction and panic I answered a question I should have known you would never ask, instead of what you were truly asking._

_Of course Baker Street is still your home. I hope that you are able to forgive my misunderstanding and come back. You are still the same man you were yesterday morning, except for any damage I myself have done. I leave it in your hands to decide if that damage can be healed._

_Very sincerely yours,  
Sherlock Holmes_

_PS. Mrs. Hudson has already noticed a lamentable deterioration in my behaviour and I suspect she is praying devoutly for your return. She has not betrayed your confidence; she merely agreed to forward this letter for me._

I stared at this missive for a while; surely it was not so simple? I seemed I had left Baker Street because of a miscommunication, a mistake made by both of us. Holmes had not been the only one in 'distress and panic'; I had not even noticed that he had answered my question before I actually finished it. I had been fearing his rejection of me so much that I had heard it, even when it was not there at all. 

I was by no means certain we could simply pick up where we had left off. But... I have always been more of a tolerant sort than not. What sort of friend would I be if I could not forgive one episode of hard words, one mistake, especially when Holmes had been so swift to apologise for it? I remembered that his day yesterday had begun with Lestrade's unsolicited groping; no wonder he had been panicky and disturbed, for all he claimed to be above such emotional issues.

Holmes had admitted his part; if I stayed away it would be a refusal to admit my own, nothing more than a fit of sulkiness that would hurt me more than anyone else.

And in all his words he had said nothing about my desire for my own gender or even what had passed between myself and Lestrade. He - as was his right! - wanted to be left out of such issues, but he had not objected to what I was. The hate and prejudice I had seen in others had not been in his face.

What really made up my mind was when I looked at the dingy little room I was in. This was what I had to look forward to, if I turned this offer down. The thought of the familiar sitting room at Baker Street, with Mrs. Hudson bringing in the tea and Holmes smoking in his chair or leaning against the window, pulled at me like a magnet. 

_I am sorry...  
friendship can survive a quarrel...  
come back..._

I would go home.


	9. Lestrade.

**Chapter 9: Lestrade**

I was immensely relieved when the telegram from Baker Street arrived. I admit, the words _'I have located your nest of rats, come this afternoon to discuss'_ would not normally make a person feel cheerful; but for me, this time, they did.

There were two reasons for my sudden improvement in outlook; three if one counted the location of the gang of thieves Holmes referred to, but to me that was, unprofessionally, the least important. First, it was clear that Holmes was indeed going to overlook my deplorable breach of decorum. The other cause for relief on my part was that I was no longer faced with the potential problem of deciding whether I dared to contact him, if a case came up that clearly called for his participation. 

Four o'clock found me in the sitting room of Baker Street. Only Holmes's coat and hat had been visible in the hall, and Holmes was alone in the room. I was concerned at Watson's absence, and looked around more intently, but the clutter in the room was such that I could not confirm his continuing residence one way or the other. I did not dare inquire after him; how would I explain I had grounds to believe he might be gone? And after all, there were a dozen plausible reasons for him to be out.

We spent the next hour thrashing out the necessary details: time, placement of men, and a squad to charge straight in the front door and scatter them into our traps. I wanted to move as soon as possible, so the time of the raid was set at 2am that very night. That would give me time to arrange for the required numbers of officers, and ought to catch the gang in residence, since their normal _modus operandi_ was to do their jobs in the hours just before dawn.

Holmes was still alone when we met outside the warehouse. Surely I could not have been that wrong... Knowing how often Holmes depended on Watson's support on these excursions, I felt that asking after him would not attract any particular notice. "Is Dr. Watson not with you? I hope he's not unwell."

I was gratified to hear his answer. "He complained of tiredness and a headache when he came in for dinner, so I happened not to mention tonight's outing," Holmes said casually. "Which is fine enough if all goes well, but I'll never hear the end of it if I manage to injure myself." One of the constables nearby reached out and rapped his knuckles against a plank of wood, then looked embarrassed when we both turned and stared at this display of superstition.

It was amusing up until the point when the man that Holmes tripped lashed around on the floor and got Holmes in the leg with his knife. Two of my men pounced on the criminal and bundled him ungently into the wagon with the others, but the damage was already done. Holmes was on the floor, holding his leg and clenching his teeth with the pain.

"How bad is it?" I asked, kneeling next to him and pulling a couple of clean handkerchiefs from my pocket. "Get me some bandages here!"

"I don't know. I need something to stop the bleeding."

"I'm working on it." The handkerchiefs were just large enough that, turned diagonally, I could pass them around his calf and knot them to put pressure on the cut. They both stained through immediately, but I left them in place and applied the proper bandages over the top. "Do you want to see the surgeon at HQ, or shall I take you back to Baker Street?"

" _Really_ , Lestrade. If you think I would let those bumbling incompetents -"

I shouted for a cab for Baker Street, and hauled Holmes to his feet, pulling his arm across my shoulders so I could help him out of the building. It only occurred to me much later that I had put my hands on him, and that he had allowed it. It is a rare man indeed who is capable of realising that just because desire exists, it does not follow that every touch is driven by that desire. 

In the cab Holmes was silent, but even without curses I could see him tense with pain whenever we hit a bump in the road. I was torn between wanting to urge the cabby to go faster to reach our destination, and go slower to make the ride more gentle. At last we pulled up in front of his home.

"Here. Keys." I took them from his hand and opened the door, shouting as I did for Watson and for Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson reached us first, and I sent her off to the kitchen for hot water, while helping Holmes up the stairs. He is not a heavy man, but I was glad enough to reach the sitting room and lower him onto the settee.

Watson appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown and bleary with sleep. He took one look at Holmes, said a couple of vicious-sounding words in some language I did not recognise, and vanished back up the stairs.

Holmes laughed. "It seems we have rather upset the doctor. And it seems he still remembers how to curse in Hindi, for all he rarely uses it."

Watson was back in less than a minute, still dressed exactly the same but completely awake this time. His medical bag was in his hand, and the orders started before he even put it down. "Lestrade, turn those lamps up and put some wood on the fire. I'll need some hot water as well."

"I've sent Mrs. Hudson for it."

"Good. What's the damage?"

"Knife wound, lower leg." Holmes answered him. "I'm not sure how bad. It's missed the tendons and the major vessels, but it may still need stitching."

"I'll know once I've cleaned it. Do you want some morphine for this?" Watson knelt on the floor, lifting Holmes's leg onto a chair so he could work on it. He took a pair of scissors from his bag and began to cut off the trouser leg completely.

"I... I think I had better," Holmes said, for some reason reluctant. Watson merely nodded and pulled a bottle from his bag. Morphine is a blessing with the speed of its effects, and within moments Holmes was noticeably more relaxed.

"Mrs. Hudson!" 

"Your hot water, sir. And I've put some soup on, downstairs. I'll bring it up in a minute. Is there anything else that you need?"

"I don't think so," Watson said absently, already loosening the bandages I had so hastily applied. I had never really had the chance to watch him work his trade before, and there was no doubting his ability. He managed somehow to be quick, thorough, and gentle all at the same time, cleaning the wound out so he could see what else was necessary.

"This will need stitching. About eight or nine, I would think. Holmes, tell me if you need any more morphine." And he began to put the stitches in, neatly and efficiently. Mrs. Hudson returned at some point with a tureen of soup and some biscuits. I knew better than to interrupt Watson, but I pressed a biscuit on Holmes and made sure he ate it. His hands were unsteady from the combined effects of the late hour, the wounding and the drug, so I left the soup, but brought him a glass of port. 

Watson finished his stitching, placed a clean piece of gauze over the wound, and wrapped the leg in a neat bandage. "That's it. Lestrade, help me get him up." We took Holmes between us into his room, and I supported him alone for a moment so that Watson could turn down his bed. 

"Are you right from here, Holmes?" Watson asked, equally reluctant to intrude and to leave his friend in need of assistance. 

"I should be. If you could just bring me a cup of tea once I'm settled, that would be splendid."

Watson and I shut the door behind us and sat down at the dining table for a bit of supper. I realised this was the first time we had even seen each other since that rather dramatic day some weeks back. 

I had something I wanted to say, and no idea when I was likely to have another chance. I prefer to be blunt and be understood than to muddy an issue with hints and implications, so I spoke straight out. "I am glad to see you still in residence. When Holmes came alone tonight I was concerned I had been wrong, but he insisted on being brought back here, despite my offer of other surgeons," I said to him. "I told you he would never turn you out." 

"Yes, you did," he replied, through there was an odd tone to his voice as he said it. "And I suppose you have not been concerned whether he would associate with you on cases again?"

I caught his meaning easily enough. The fact that the three of us were in the same relative positions we had been before did not mean that the previous month had been painless. Obviously there was, or had been, some unpleasantness between them. I hastily changed the subject, giving Watson a few more details of the night's events, and made my excuses. 

As I let myself out of the room, I saw Watson carefully pouring a cup of tea for Holmes. I wondered how long he would sit up, patiently watching, before he allowed himself to go back to bed. 

We had lain together once, out of need and desperation, but we were not and never would be lovers. However the mutual release had cleared the air between us, and I still considered him a friend. I no longer had any stake in the future direction of their relationship, but whether just as a friend or as more, I did hope that Holmes would at least value Watson as he deserved.


	10. Holmes.

**Chapter 10: Holmes**

I have never been so glad to be stabbed. Watson and I had spent weeks stepping warily around each other, afraid of accidentally giving offence. If we had cared about each other less it would have been easier, but our very attempts to be careful of the other's feelings deprived our interactions of any warmth. 

The evening he had returned to Baker Street had been an agony. He could not have been more polite if I had been the unwed daughter of a vicar, and I constantly fluctuated between wanting to grasp his hand in welcome and to hit him in the face. He told me much later that he would have preferred it had I done either, and that he had never realised that he liked me better with all my sarcasm and acerbity than when I was trying to be mindful of my manners.

We were not the only ones acting abnormally. Mrs. Hudson spent most of the next week finding excuses to enter our rooms a score of times every day, clearly making sure that neither of us disappeared again. She only relented after I pulled her away from her baking one morning and insisted she escort Watson to the post office and back. That earned me a glare from both of them, and I was quite pleased to see it.

Things were somewhat improved by the time I was injured, and if I had known how much it would help, I would have contrived some way to have it happen earlier. 

If I had told Watson a thousand times that I trusted him, it still would have been less effective than that one demonstration, allowing him to patch me up and sit next to my bed as I went to sleep. That did more to reassure him than any words could have done. And I discovered that I was not merely pretending to be comfortable with him; I truly went to sleep more easily knowing he was nearby.

After that, matters went better between us; by the start of December we were almost back to the way we had been.

I say 'almost'... Our day-to-day interactions were restored to normal, but for myself the memories of seeing Watson and Lestrade together intruded into my mind at odd moments, and refused to fade. It was worse when they occurred just as I was going to sleep, when in the quiet darkness there was nothing to distract me. At those times they called a physical response from my body that I did my best to suppress. 

And each time I felt the damn itch of my curiosity. I quickly dismissed the idea of finding a casual partner of my own; there were far too many people with an interest in my downfall to risk committing an illegal action without having complete trust in the other party. Lestrade also had no place in my calculations. I could ignore his unasked violation of my privacy for the sake of our professional relationship, but my disgust at that violation remained. And even had it never occurred, my trust in him ran only up to a certain point. 

I found it harder to dismiss the idea of approaching Watson. Here was a man of my own age and class; I was already certain of his proclivities and I knew I could trust him absolutely. I continued to study him from this new angle, confident of finding some fatal flaw so that I could declare the whole idea impossible and thus return to being the dispassionate person I had been.

I suppose if I had been more experienced in these matters I might have seen the trap before it closed. But my closer examination of Watson only served to show me what others, including Lestrade, had seen before. By the time I realised that I wanted to touch him as an end in itself, it was too late. 

But whenever desire intruded, I remembered how my violent recoil from his hand had hurt him; I could not simply announce that I had changed my mind. He had been hiding his desire from me all this time; now it was my turn to hide from him.

My difficulties were compounded by the fact that I did not know if he and Lestrade had established an ongoing relationship. I thought they had not, but I was just uncertain enough to hesitate over making too strong an approach.

It was when I saw the first branch of holly tacked up over a shop doorway that I had my idea. For various reasons I have always avoided Christmas as much as possible; it causes much disruption to people, such as myself, who like order in their world, and I was often inconvenienced by closed businesses and altered train times. Even Mrs. Hudson changed her habits at Christmas, serving a magnificent meal at noon, but then abandoning us for the rest of the day to be with her own family. 

But this year it might be just what I needed.

I only ever bought two gifts at Christmas. Mrs. Hudson's was usually a simple decision, some household item, but Watson was another matter. I never wanted to disappoint him, but it was hard to put myself into his place to imagine what he could want. This year I knew exactly what I was going to buy for him, but the short note that went with it took me hours to compose. 

He passed me his gift over the table just after lunch. He had obviously considered carefully before selecting it, presenting me with a new music stand. 

"I noticed that your old one always seems to collapse just when you are concentrating the hardest," he said. Actually, I suspect it was the black mood that followed each collapse that he had noticed, but all the same it was thoughtful of him and I thanked him in all seriousness.

I had never intended to give Watson his gift at lunch, but seeing the bright expectation in his face I had to explain why my hands were empty. "I do have a gift for you, but you cannot have it just yet. You do not have to wait all that long, you can have it later on this evening. Meanwhile, shall I make use of your gift to me?"

I played several of Watson's favourite pieces, while he slid gradually into a post-lunch nap on the settee. I was too caught up in trying to plot probable outcomes of my plans to be at all sleepy, so I continued to practice while the short December afternoon faded into darkness and snow started to fall.

We did pay one social call at Christmas. We had made ourselves available to the official forces more than once during the holiday season; in return they always issued us with an invitation to drop in at the station, where the atmosphere was deliberately cheerful for the sake of those officers obliged to be on duty. Usually we accepted, and this year I welcomed the excuse to keep us occupied and out of our quarters during the evening. 

One of the station's larger rooms was set up for the occasion with a buffet of snacks and drinks, and we were welcomed in as friends. A couple of hours of entertaining and often gruesome conversations followed, shop talk amongst reminiscing officers. The cheerful atmosphere grew increasingly thick, but I was determined not to leave before a certain time. I am sure that Watson was glad when I finally decided to make our goodbyes and return to the sharp, clear air of the street. The snow had stopped falling, so the night was fair for walking. I was still working to my inner timetable, and walked as slowly as I could without it attracting Watson's notice.

Supper was a rather modest affair; basically the cold remains of lunch, not that we needed more. By the time even Watson had to declare that another bite was impossible, it was just late enough for me to announce that I had had enough of Christmas, and was going to bed.

'Now, now, Watson! Don't be so disappointed; you can extend your celebrations even If I do not. I will give you your gift now, provided you promise to wait for five minutes before you open it. You know I cannot abide effusive gratitude." And with those words, I deposited a large, somewhat squashy parcel wrapped in brown paper on his lap, went into my room, and closed the door.

Now I was committed, and it only remained to see what Watson would do.


	11. Watson.

**Chapter 11: Watson**

At last I was free to open the package that had been nagging at me all afternoon. It looked ordinary enough; I wondered why Holmes had forbidden me to open it. Probably it was simply another little game that amused him, like the number of times he woke me with ten minutes' notice when he could have given me half an hour.

First, there was a sheet of notepaper that I put to one side in order to unfold the thick fabric underneath. A new dressing gown, in a warm shade of brown, and made of the softest, heaviest wool imaginable, and fully lined in matching brown satin. I recognised the manufacturer's name on the label, but I think I could have guessed it anyway, from the quality. It must have cost nearly as much as a good suit, and was a clear order of magnitude above my current slightly threadbare one, even when it had been new. Already I looked forward to putting it on.

Then I remembered the note that came with it. Like all of Holmes's communications, it was short and to the point.

_I would like to see you in this. I would like even more to see you out of it._

_I know you desired me once. At the time I was not ready to consider such a thing, but I have not forgotten it, and indeed, the idea has grown to occupy much of my thoughts. I understand that even as my feelings have changed, so may have yours. But know that if you wish to join me tonight, I am waiting for you._

_If you choose to decline this invitation be assured I shall conduct myself with the same courtesy as you have shown me all this time._

I must have read this five or six times, expecting the words to mutate into some conventional greeting. I did still desire him, as I always had, but I had spent so long denying myself permission to feel it that I am sorry to say my first reaction was complete numbness.

But for all my rereading, the words remained the same, and unmistakable in meaning. Slowly I began to believe it, that this Christmas I might be given the one thing I wanted above any other. But I was not so naive as to reach for it without considering the costs.

I did have qualms about his motives. I had no idea why he had changed his mind, and on such a serious issue I had to be certain of what he was feeling before I committed myself to a decision that must affect our friendship. At least I had learnt the folly of pre-judging his opinions; the only reasonable way to find out was to ask him.

I knocked on his door, and called out, "Holmes? I have something I need to ask you."

He opened the door, and for once I could see that his neutral expression was only held in place with some effort. "Of course, Watson. Anything."

"One question, Holmes. Why? I will not accept this if you do it out of some sense of obligation, or, God forbid, pity."

"Why. That is always the hardest question, is it not? No, it is neither obligation nor pity. That one time I saw you... " He paused and thought. "I have known Lestrade for longer even than I have known you, and I would have said I knew him through and through. I have seen him angry, despondent, cheerful, oh, a dozen different moods; I have even seen his face when he has shot to kill. 

"But I have never seen such a transformation as when you touched him. It seemed as if he was a totally different person. I have heard men talk about passion, but I had never seen it. And I have never felt it."

"So this is out of curiosity?" I shook my head. "That is not enough."

" _Think_ , Watson! It must always be curiosity, the first time. You cannot truly want something you have never had, you can only want to try it."

I had to smile at that. "Holmes, desire is not bound by logic; thinking about it is not going to help, although I do take your point."

"Would it help if I said that I cannot stop remembering what I saw and heard? And that it must be you, and nobody else?"

"Yes." I finally believed he was serious. "Yes, that makes a difference." 

I was still standing in the doorway. Moving slowly, I took the one step that was all that was necessary to close the gap between us. One hand went behind his neck and I kissed him on the lips, very gently. Just a brush of my mouth, one, two, three times, but on the fourth time I held back, and was rewarded when I saw his lips twitch forwards, seeking contact with my own.

Holmes frowned. "Was that wrong?"

"No, not at all. I don't want to touch an inanimate lump. I want to touch _you_. I can only tell if I am succeeding if you respond, so I was looking for your response." I reached out to stroke the side of his face with my fingertips. "Perhaps you should take action to prevent me from pulling away from you."

This time when I kissed him, his hands came up tentatively to hold my shoulders, and in return I pressed my body closer. I made each contact last longer, using my tongue to just taste his lips, and my free hand slid around his body to hold him.

"Holmes."

"Yes?"

"I am just going to go upstairs for a moment, and try on this most excellent dressing gown you have given me. I shall be back in a very short time, I promise you."

I did not have to go at all, of course, but I had my reasons. It would give Holmes a bit of time to get used to the idea that I had accepted his offer, especially since, as he himself admitted, his experience was minimal. Also with that in mind, I planned to change into the dressing gown solely, taking care of those awkward moments involved in undressing. 

There was an unexpected benefit when I put his gift on. The satin sliding over my bare skin was amazingly sensual, and complemented my mood perfectly. A last precaution was to slip a jar into my pocket. I might not need it at all, depending on how things progressed, but if I did, I wanted it where I could get at it.

He was sitting on his bed when I came back into the room. I saw he had changed into a dressing gown as well, and from what I could see, he was as bare underneath it as I was. I put out one hand to stop him rising, and crossed the room to kneel in front of him, bringing us face-to-face. I read the tension in his body, and guessed its cause.

"You are willing, but uncertain, are you not?" He did not contradict me, so I continued. "Well, all you have to know is that you don't _have_ to do anything. If you think of something you would like to do, then do it, and if I do anything you don't like, just tell me. Don't worry about 'shoulds' and 'oughts', all that matters is the two of us, here, and now."

I smiled at him. "If you've been thinking about it, you must have _something_ you have imagined doing to me?" I was surprised and delighted when he ran his hands through my hair, then slid them slowly down my arms, squeezing to feel the muscles there.

"You are so solid, so reassuring. I cannot count the times I have been glad to have you by me. And now I am asking you to do something for me yet again." 

"For _us_ ," I corrected him. "At least this time I know I will enjoy doing it. Not all your 'requests' are so pleasant." I smiled, to take any sting out of the words, and kissed him again. 

I parted his lips with my tongue and Holmes opened his mouth, allowing my entry. His breathing quickened as I explored him, and when I pulled back he tentatively reached forward, and I yielded freely. There was no numbness now; I was almost dizzy with the realization that Holmes was in my arms, and the warm flush of arousal was running through me.

I slowly pushed Holmes down onto his back, then untied the sash of his dressing gown and pulled it open to expose him completely. I had seen him in various states of undress before in our years of living and working together, but this was the first time I was free to appreciate him openly. There were scars scattered across all of his skin that I could see, some that I had repaired myself, and more as well. I lightly touched a few, and commented: "You have not used yourself gently, have you?"

"The aesthetics of my body are not my primary consideration, no." Holmes replied. "If I am ever asked to pose for a statue, I shall make sure I remain decently clothed." I laughed at this, then let my hands run over his torso, just drinking in the feel of him. Holmes lay languidly on the bed, eyes closed, but letting me know of his enjoyment with small sighs, occasionally moving slightly to press into my touch.

My mouth was quick to follow my hands, tracing curves and lines, going wherever I wanted. I bit him on the neck, hard enough to make him gasp, yet he tilted his head back to subtly encourage me. And all the time I was discreetly watching that most obvious indication of arousal, and I was pleased with the results of my efforts. 

His body was so slim that there was a distinct hollow inside of each hipbone, and I detoured into one and then the other, kissing and licking him while he twisted and panted, more active now, under my touch. I used my hands on the inside of his thighs, spreading them wide apart so I could lick down into those delicate hidden areas of skin. I stayed away from his member, although I was secretly rejoicing inside at the sight of it hard and straining, but instead used my mouth all around it, coming last to his sac and pulling it almost entirely into my mouth.

"Aaaaaaah!" I felt two hands grasp my shoulders, and his hips lifted towards me, an unmistakable plea for more. I let my right hand drift into my pocket, and unscrewed the lid of the jar and collected some salve on my index finger. I stroked the skin directly underneath his sac with my finger, and then lifting my head I dropped my mouth down over his member, taking in as much of his length as I could, and at the same time sliding my finger along the crevice between his buttocks. 

Holmes shuddered all over, his hands tightening enough on my shoulders he would have left bruises, had I not had the heavy wool of the dressing gown to protect me. I caressed his member with my tongue while I held it deep inside my mouth, and caressed his opening, just swirling one fingertip around and around on the outside, stroking all those nerve endings there. I lifted my head, letting him slide out of my lips, ran my tongue across the rounded top, and took him back in my mouth again and pressed inwards very gently with the slicked finger.

I heard his breath hiss out at the sensation, but he made no objection. His passage pressed tightly on all sides of my finger, and I felt the heat of the inside of his body. The heat and tightness urged me onwards, but I ignored that selfish desire; I had never wanted only his body but his whole being, and for that I would take as long as necessary for both of us to find pleasure equally. "It's a muscle," I whispered. "Relax it, where I'm touching you."

I felt it when he understood what I wanted him to do. I moved in a steady rhythm, mouth and hand, waiting until he started to push his hips into my touch before taking more salve and adding a second finger. 

"That feels... it feels..." Holmes seemed unable to finish his sentence.

"Good? Bad?" I suggested, and then asked the question I had to ask. "Do you want me to stop?" Mentally begging for the answer to be 'no'.

"Do that again," he finally managed, and I laughed.

"If you had any idea how much I wish to do exactly that," I answered, thrusting in more vigorously with my hand. Holmes let his head fall back, moaning inarticulately. I revelled in the taste of him, the scent; indeed all my senses were totally engaged in his body. But I felt more than just physical arousal. I like to think that I have never left one of my partners disappointed, however this time Holmes's passion was even more important to me than my own, and I felt minutely aware of his every sound and movement. Then Holmes lifted himself up on one elbow and touched my shoulder, so that I looked up at him.

"Watson, I was wrong. It is not curiosity. I want it." And he looked straight into my eyes, his confusion and need showing plainly on his face. "I want you." 

I think I would have given my life to hear him say that. "I -" I started to say, but my throat was suddenly dry, and I had to stop and swallow before I could try again. "Since when have I ever said no to you? If you want me, then you shall have me." I held out the jar of salve I had brought from my room, sure that he would recognise it and remember what Lestrade had done with it, and lifted my eyebrow in inquiry. He smiled, and took it from my hand.

"Take off your dressing gown," he said, with some of his usual confidence back in his voice. I knelt up on the bed between his legs and did as he said, tossing it onto the floor. He simply looked for a moment, surveying my nakedness as openly as I had his, before levering himself to a sitting position. To my surprise, he ignored both my erection and the jar in his hand, instead passing both arms around my waist. My surprise turned to shock when he pulled one of my nipples into his mouth. 

The feel of it was incredible, so warm and wet, with his tongue lapping and tickling the sensitive flesh, so that the small nub hardened almost instantly in reaction. I could feel his lips smiling against my skin, and as he moved to play with the other one I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head, that being the only spot that I could reach.

Holmes pulled back, and I when I saw the glint in his eyes, I knew he had deduced something he would not forget: that the flow did indeed go both ways, and he had as much power over my body as I had over his. A second encounter with him could prove to be very interesting. But any thoughts of later dissolved when he dipped his fingers into the salve and reached at last for my erection.

His first touch was very light, and it took me a moment to realise he was afraid of hurting me. "Harder," I told him, and when his hand took a firmer grip and slid downward, I felt it all the way to my toes. "Oh, yes. Like that." 

I let myself go for a moment, just luxuriating in the feel of his hand stroking me. I had forgotten Holmes's inexperience until he spoke. "What do I do now?" He asked. "Should we trade places?"

I collected my wits back together. He was still thinking of what Lestrade and I had done, but he lacked Lestrade's experience. "No, I think something a little simpler, for a first time. Lie flat on your back, and if you lift your knees up towards your chest -" My words stopped short as he did exactly that, lying before me completely vulnerable and completely trusting. I held back for one breath longer, still at some level not believing that this was happening, then eased my body down over his.

I made the entry slow, concerned about causing him pain, and I did not realise how ready he was until he grasped my hips in his hands and pulled me inwards. As I pulled back and slid in again I saw his eyes fall closed, black lashes impossibly distinct against his skin, and he breathed, "Name of God, Watson, the sensation -"

"I know," I said. "Me, too." Not exactly epic poetry, but the best I could manage with my brain being melted by the fire blazing inside my body. There are positions that would have been easier for me, but I had wanted to be able to see his face. The sight of it now almost undid me, as his lips parted to allow him to breathe and his pale cheeks flushed with the same heat that I was feeling.

I was using both my arms to support myself, but I also wanted his pleasure to keep pace with mine. "Take yourself in your hand. I need both arms to hold my weight, or I would do it," I told him, and Holmes nodded and complied.

He instinctively fell into rhythm with me, his hand moving in time with my thrusts. It was not long before I was having to hold back my climax, but after dreaming so long of Holmes lying nude underneath me, of his own desire, I could not bear for it to end. But the very perfection of it, the heat and the friction and the sound of his gasps of pleasure, undid my resolve. My peak came with a rush that swept all before it, as I pounded mindlessly into his body and emptied myself completely.

I still held my body propped up on my arms, but when I let my head fall down to rest my forehead on his chest I saw gouts of semen lying splashed across his stomach, and realised he must have climaxed along with me. 

"I never thought that this would ever happen." I didn't even realise until Holmes responded that I had spoken out loud.

"Careful there, Watson; for a moment I thought you were about to commit an outbreak of sentiment," Holmes replied, tone light but his meaning serious. Physical intimacy and trust were one thing, outpourings of emotion another. 

"My dear fellow! I wouldn't dream of it," I assured him. "I just wanted you to know you have achieved the perfect Christmas gift. There is nothing else I would rather have had than this."

"That will make next year difficult. What does one do after achieving perfection?"

I shifted position, needing to take the weight off of my arms, and we ended up facing each other, lying on our sides. "If you play a piece of music perfectly, does that mean you never play it again? Or do you play it perfectly again and enjoy it just as much?"

Holmes looked away from me. "I know what you are saying. But I cannot answer you just yet. I will need some time to think about this. Although, now that I know what sexual passion feels like, I suspect it, and you, are not easily resisted." 

Patience and restraint had gained me much; it was not time to abandon a winning strategy. "I will press you no more now than I did before. And if I am going to keep that promise, I had better remove myself off to my own bed. It would not do for me to be here in the morning, and besides it is a bit crowded for two." 

Holmes looked relieved at this; I told myself not to be hurt by his relief, but to remember that this was all strange territory for him. I was not going to sour his gift with petulance. 

I lifted myself, reluctantly, from the bed, and collected my new dressing gown from the floor to wrap myself against the cold of the hallway and stairs.

"Wait!" Holmes called, even as I was turning towards the door. I turned back, and saw him visibly struggling for words. "I believe - " and he took a deep breath, "I believe that good night kisses are all the vogue at the moment. Shall you have one, to go with your other presents?"

I was almost too amazed at his sensitivity to my feelings to respond. He did not want me to go away thinking him cold or uncaring of what had passed between us. I came back and bent over him, while he took my face in both hands. The kiss was trivial compared with what had gone before, our lips just parted and our tongues brushing lightly once, but it was the sweetest kiss I have ever had.

"Goodnight, John. Merry Christmas."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Sleep well."


	12. Mrs. Hudson.

**Chapter 12: Mrs. Hudson**

I knew as soon as it happened, of course. It would be a poor landlady indeed who did not know what was going on in her own house, in all respects. I had known about Dr. Watson all along, but I had sometimes wondered if Mr. Holmes would ever stop chasing after this and that long enough to notice what was right in front of him. But I should have remembered that men are always slower to see these things than women are. 

It was Boxing Day, that first time, when I came back after Christmas to find the house empty, and assumed my gentlemen were out lunching somewhere. I started about the usual housework, but all I had to do was set foot inside Mr. Holmes's bedroom to know what had been going on. 

But I held back on any indication that I was aware of anything out of the ordinary. One night is not a relationship, so I waited to see how things would turn out. I was not sure which one of them would be more hurt by a misunderstanding at this point, but I did not want either of them to be unhappy. The best thing that I could do was to hold my peace, while hoping that they would realise just how much they were meant to be together.

It took several weeks before I felt more secure that all was going to be well. I suspected that it was Mr. Holmes who set the pace, since it was usually his wishes that prevailed in all their arrangements. A man who is capable of considering activities such as eating and sleeping as optional while he is working is hardly going to put that work aside for intimate dalliance. At least, I only found evidence that they had been together at those times I knew him to be between cases. This did not seem entirely fair on my dear Dr. Watson, but if he was content with the arrangement, it certainly was not my place to be affronted.

Now it was time for my own plans to be laid. I began one morning at breakfast. "I know that your schedule is erratic in the extreme, Mr. Holmes, but if you have any idea about when the two of you are likely to be away for, say, a week, there is a bit of maintenance I have been wanting to have done around here.

"The Doctor's room certainly needs painting. If I had notice of when you were going to be away, I could have it all complete and properly aired out before you got back. And these carpets need to be taken up and given a good beating, which would be much easier without you underfoot." I made a point of having to pick my way across the room with the tray, steering around the various piles of messiness.

I was lucky enough to get my chance within a fortnight, when a murder case took them as far as York. I had already made most of the arrangements, and all was completed in good time.

They got in late the night they came back. I convinced them to leave their luggage in the hall and come into the sitting room for supper, not wanting my surprise to be sprung early. I lingered to chat when I came to clear away, and then came straight out and asked them to come up and see what had been done.

I led the way up the stairs, and entered the Doctor's bedroom, turning so I could see their expressions when they noticed the extent of my alterations. The curtains were new, and the walls were now a lovely light shade of blue to make the room seem more spacious. This was necessary to counteract the fact that the open floor space was actually smaller, since the single bed was gone and in its place was a handsome new double bed.

"There, you see? All painted up, nice and fresh. I had to take out one of the dressers, but the bed there is higher up from the floor, so there is room to slide the trunks underneath, for those things you don't need to get at every day." I looked sideways at my gentlemen. "And since the bed needed to be replaced, I thought I might as well install a double. That way, when I want to rent the room again, I can offer it to either a single man or to a married couple."

Mr. Holmes caught the implications of my words first. "Mrs. Hudson! Do tell me you're not thinking of taking different tenants?" 

I was hard put not to laugh at the distress in his expression. "Did you hang up your brain with your coat at the door? Of course not! But that's the story I've told the carpenter, and the painter, and Anne, Lizzie, and Jane, and the seamstress who made the curtains, and that nosy Mrs. Pearson from two doors down-"

He threw up his hands and admitted defeat. "All right, Mrs. Hudson. I believe I understand the idea."

"Good." I nodded decisively. "I certainly hope that you both understand me. This bed is here to be used. Life is not long enough to ignore what gifts you are given, even if they are not what you were expecting."

The Doctor looked at me thoughtfully, and from his face he was not in the least surprised. Mr. Holmes's very lack of expression gave him away completely, although I have to give him credit for trying to keep up appearances.

"Mrs. Hudson! I do believe you have made some sort of mistake here -"

" _Just_ a moment, Mr. Holmes. I may not have your brains or your education, but there is one thing I can tell you. Never think you are keeping secrets from the woman who does your laundry. Now are we all going to accept that I know exactly what I am saying, or do I have to spell out my reasoning for you?"

The poor man had absolutely nowhere to go. He knew I was right, and I knew I was right. Even worse, I could see the Doctor behind him, and he was smiling now, and he even winked at me. I kept a straight face, afraid that laughing out loud would hurt Mr. Holmes's feelings. 

"Now, I have sent the maids home for the night, and we are the only three people in the house. I am about to lock up, then go to bed, and I think I am going to be remarkably deaf this evening. I hope that both of you gentlemen sleep well. Doctor, Mr. Holmes," I finished, nodding at each of them, and left the room, certain that we were all in agreement.

I paused on the landing, where I could hear the Doctor's voice clearly, despite the closed door. "I suspect she might be offended if we fail to take as broad a hint as that."

"Indeed. Mrs. Hudson, _will_ you stop listening at the door? I assure you that we can manage on our own from here."

I was smiling quite openly as I continued down the stairs. Everything was exactly as it should be.


End file.
